“Is it the house in Phoenix? I’ll fucking buy it off you if you have a mortgage.”
“It’s not the house,” he murmurs.
“What is it then?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t want me.”
Anger snaps through me. “I want you.”
“You don’t. I swear you don’t.”
I ease back and lift his chin. “Why wouldn’t I want you, Beau?”
He drops his arms to his sides in frustration. “Because I’m a mess!”
“I fail to see how that would change my desire for you.”
He steps away from me. “Okay, then. How about thefuckingtumor in my head? Would that do it? Is that something you want to sign up for? Surgeries and treatment and caretaking? Because that’s not how I imagine a relationship going. That’s not something I want to dump on anyone.”
I’m not proud of my silence, but I’m afraid if I open my mouth at that moment, all that will come out is more anger. I’m pissed at this entire fucked up situation. Pissed that someone like Beau should have to suffer from something so far outside of his control.
“How long have you known?” I finally ask.
His gaze drops. “Found out yesterday.”
I should have paid closer attention to him. I should have caught the symptoms. The morning he stumbled out of bed. The headaches. How he sometimes shakes out his right hand in-between strumming.
He’s been so tired. He’s been sick formonths.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” His shaky words hit me square in the chest, robbing me of air and snuffing out my rage.
Suddenly, I feel empty. Achy on the inside.
Beau leans in to brush his lips to my cheek. And then he walks out my front door without another word spoken.
Gone from my life just like I vanished from his years ago.
In my nightmare, I’m standing in my spare bedroom in the dark, my gaze locked on the lump under the blankets on the bed.
I approach Beau with heavy steps. He looks so peaceful sleeping, his overgrown hair a poof of frizz and his lips parted just enough that they would perfectly fit my own.
The words I spoke to him the other night play on repeat in my head.
I want you to run, Beau.
Ripping off the blankets, I grab his ankle and drag him off the bed. His body hits the floor with a solid thump. He groans as he comes to, and then he tries kicking out at me in wild abandon.
I stare down at him struggling. Nothing stirs in my chest.
Beau claws at the floorboards as I drag him into my bathroom, indifferent to his cries.
Crying doesn’t do shit. You should know that by now.
Our surroundings warp into a more familiar scene. Vintage tile. Green walls. A porcelain tub with a stubborn ring of dirt I was never able to scrub away. How much pain did that earn me?
Enough to create this monster inside of me. This vicious anger I can’t seem to shake. Even in death, my dad still has a crushing hold on me.
Curling a hand around Beau’s neck, I haul him over the edge of the tub. His deep blue eyes plead for mercy.
